To Kill A Man of Steel
by The Red Velvet Cake
Summary: I don't like Superman. I think is what the world would be like if there really was such a person flying around


To Kill A Man of Steel

The Man of Steel eclipsed all that could be seen. A celestial body that brought shadow to everything beneath him, he remained aloft in an azure sky, obscuring the sun and Derek's hopes of escaping the white sands of Varadero beach.

This was the first time he had seen him, the man everyone referred to as the Superman_. _Derek swore never to refer to him as such. But standing several feet beneath this demigod, Derek found himself unable to contain the thought of the name passing through him. His countenance was suppressed with shade, his silhouette that of a figure sculpted on Mount Olympus, wrapped in the darkest of coverings. He was taller and broader than the average man, with the strength of millions and in addition the powers of a deity. Without illness, without imperfection - he contrasted the shape of humanity as much as he resembled it.

All day there had been barely a breeze, but now the frosty breath of the alien moved thickly across Derek's face. He wondered how long he would remain there. It was said he could read minds. Derek flicked an eye at the decapitated body whose hands still reached for his trouser leg. Perhaps he had read _his_ mind? Derek wondered.

15 minutes ago it was more straightforward. Collect 2kg of K from a man in Cuba and bring it back to London without any fuss_._ That was the entire brief he had received, and all he thought he needed to know. In hindsight it was easy to say yes to all of this, having never encountered him. Now it seemed like folly. Of course he would intercept, of course he would put a stop to it. The K is all that can get to him – why would he leave any of it unmonitored?

They say that there is approximately 800kg of K on Earth and Superman posses 80% of it. 2% remains unaccounted for. But a further 18% is kept with various Governments as insurance. A Man of Steel could only be placated with gifts of women and food for so long. Give him what he could take with ease – perhaps to quell his interest – Derek doubted anyone in government thought so far into it.

The black market value of K was immense. A figure not measured in currency, but measured in time. Nations were more than willing to sell their citizens freedom in order to protect themselves with K. Nations slaves to other nations, but a world shackled by a single being.

Derek had arrived in Cuba from London just over 4 hours ago, and had immediately hired a taxi to make his way to the collection point at Varadero – no time to change out of the formal shirt and jacket combination he wore along the flight. He was to meet with his contacts, Fenton and Alistair, make the exchange and return. Varedero was the ideal place. It was clean, quiet, with a choice of a few beach huts if they had time to toast their deal. Derek couldn't have chosen a lovelier spot for a very brief and inconspicuous meeting between fellow 'holiday makers'.

But trouble started when Sergio, the Cuban fixer, decided to invite some friends.

Sergio and his unwelcomed guests pulled up in a worn out 1957 Chevrolet, driven intrusively onto the sand. Derek asked Alistair, "How many do you make coming out?"

Derek never knew Alistair's background. But he figured it was something tough – ex Mi5 or some such. From behind his reflective sunshades, he gave the type of split second detail only professional man could. "4 men coming out the car, plus Sergio to make 5. It's at least 30 degrees, and they're all wearing jackets, so I would say they're packing – not too sure what from this distance, but they'll be stoppers for sure. Are you armed?"

Derek shook his head.

"Shit." Alistair failed to hide his disappointment. "If it gets thick try to head away from the sand - more cover by the huts." Just then, Fenton popped up innocently holding the suitcase with the K. Fenton was a Government man, soft looking and constantly anxious. To be honest, Derek was unsure why he was involved beyond getting him safely through border control.

"Who are those guys?" Fenton asked. "No one said anything about any others! If they see my face…"

Fenton did not need to worry about anyone seeing his face then, or from that moment on, as it became nothing but a cloud of pink mist over the Varadero sands. The sound of the shot caused Derek to jump; it was as though he felt the moment that his eyes saw years in advance only now. His face was splattered with the blood of the dead man. And now the case with the K lay in the sand just in front of him.

"Don't move cabron!" Sergio's words caught Alistair with a hand reaching for his inside jacket. "Your man, Mr Barkley, should have kept his mouth shut. Now it's shut for good, huh?" Sergio pointed his silenced pistol at the body. Fenton clearly wasn't his real name – why should it have been? After all _Derek_ definitely was not a Derek.

The 4 others fanned out to cover the scene. Unsightly in their jackets on such a pleasant day, they didn't disappoint as they removed offensive pieces of black metal from their inner pockets.

With his pistol on Derek, Sergio picked up Fenton's briefcase. He gestured to one of his _hombres_ behind him, who grimly nodded, his face glistening in tense sweat.

"There's a high frequency beacon in the car. Wherever he is, he'll hear it." Sergio seemed confident.

Derek had regained himself, and quietly measured the odds as he spoke. "I don't know what Fenton - Mr Barkley - may have said to you. But this all seems like a terrible misunderstanding. There's a nice beach hut, just up there. How about we all go and talk this through?"

"I got nothing to say. El Jefe wants the K back. If he knew this was what Barkley was up to, he would have capped him up weeks ago. No one knows if this K shit can kill a superman. And if it hit's the fan, we don't want that kind of beef in Cuba, you understand?"

"Yes, I do…" Derek couldn't sense any relent in Sergio's tone. Nor any compromise in the 4 other black metal eyes trained on him and Alistair. "So where does that leave us?"

Sergio anxiously searched the sky, "You, Derek, you gonna answer to The Superman. You," he pointed his pistol at Alistair, "you're gonna join your friend Barkley."

No sooner had the Cuban uttered the words, Alistair's eyes flickered down. Derek leapt at the signal, diving into Sergio's chest. The Cuban's muffled gunshot tore through the sky. The beach erupted into the explosive crash of gunfire. Derek held to Sergio, wrestling him off his feet and twisting so the Cuban remained on top to shield him.

To his left, Alistair sidestepped across the sand as he expertly unloaded shot after shot from his hardware. He caught 2 of Sergio's men, sending them sprawling, but a shot caught his shoulder and spun him off balance. Just then, Sergio hammered the butt of his pistol at Derek's head. Derek took the blow, but seized the arm with a hyper-extending lock. Without a weapon he would have to choke him. He managed to free just enough of his left leg to swing it over Sergio's neck, and hold it with his free arm. He was pinned by Sergio's weight, but it would soon be dead weight.

Shots still cracked on, and the sand around them erupted dangerously close. With a last gasp of resistance, Sergio twisted sharply, breaking Derek's lock, and exposing him to the blood splattered henchman aiming a long barrelled weapon at him. Smoke still oozed from the black gun just as it oozed from the dark red holes in Alistair's back just beyond. Derek braced himself.

Directly, and in no other way but instantly, the henchman's head fell from his shoulders. His body attempted to march onwards under a fountain of bright arterial blood until it fell to rest beside its loose head.

Instinctively, Derek rolled to his feet. Sergio reached out a desperate hand to restrain him, clutching Derek's trouser leg. Then he stopped. Paralysed, the only things that seemed to move were the bones of the Cuban's skull as they warped and expanded to abnormal size. His forehead grew like an orb of hot glass, and his eyes made painful retreat within the mound of flesh that was his face. Swollen with a red heat it finally peaked, ejecting a jet of blood and brain. Just as suddenly, the sack of skin that was once a head shrivelled as the heat intensified and all its moisture spilled out across the sand. At last dehydrated it began to burn until there was nothing left above a charred stump of a neck.

It was then the shadow from above enlightened Derek as to what was now happening. Hot death from eyes absent warmth.

Presently, Derek became aware that Superman was descending towards him. His feet were bare, and except for his black singlet, he wore nothing. Perhaps his bearded face hid his age, but he had been known to the world for over 50 years, yet he looked no older than 30. His eyes, narrow and dark rimmed under sharp brows, were cerulean in colour.

The Superman never touched the bloody sands beneath him, and when he spoke, his voice was as distant as the look his eyes held, forever on the horizon. Was he even aware of Derek's existence?

"…No man can summon me." Whispered, but on breath that froze the summer out of the warm Caribbean.

Without another sound he rose skyward and towards the west in the direction of Havana. Not long after the Superman had passed Derek's field of view, the first of 3 thunderous explosions could be felt. The ground trembled, and screams far from the calmness of the beach leapt to even Derek's ears. Cuba would pay a toll in blood.

Derek scanned the sand around him, quickly finding the briefcase with the K, half submerged in the fine white sand beneath him. No one knew for certain K had any real effect, and even now, Derek was not convinced. He should have been dead. But he was spared? No, he was ignored. And he was sure Superman would see the K!

Another ground vibration jarred his bones and turned the underside of the sky red – missile fire. Derek opened the briefcase and checked the contents, realising why it was that Superman could not see it, and probably why he was still alive. It had been lined with what could only have been lead foil. The K was in a heavy grey metallic casing, sealed in a plastic wallet. It looked as ordinary as filings of oxidised copper – but carrying a far greater level of radioactivity.

Derek reached into his pocket and checked the radiation exposure patch he carried. It was still light red. He closed the briefcase, and made to leave the once wonderful beach. Above him, white streaks arched over the oceanic sky. Offshore missiles aimed at The Man of Steel. Derek ran for the old Chevrolet, parked up on the beach and made quick to find a way off the island.


End file.
